


For What it's Worth

by thebombardier



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Historical, M/M, Veterans, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-19
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebombardier/pseuds/thebombardier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1972, almost '73, and the world is changing. (Vietnam War AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Turn on, Tune in, Drop out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every story starts somewhere
> 
> Kind of beta'd once upon a time. Pardon me.

He doesn’t remember how or why they came to it, but one day his friend mentions in passing going to San Francisco. When asked ‘why’, the friend counters, ‘why not?’.

 

That night they pack themselves and their essentials in the friend’s old, red VW Microbus and hit the road. Alfred’s mother is hysterical when he and Matt call her from Albuquerque around noon time. She demands they come home, but Alfred disregards her.

 

“We’ve come this far already,” He says, hand over the mouth piece so she cannot hear the exchange. He can hear her yelling at him about responsibility, even though he is holding the phone well away from his ear.

 

“She’ll give us hell when we come home,” Matt states obviously staring at the phone in Alfred’s hand.

 

“’S totally worth it,” Alfred laughs, “Think of it as brotherly bondin’.” And with that he says goodbye to his mother, who is too busy screaming to hear him hang up on her.

 

Matt doesn’t look so sure, but doesn’t say anything contrary.

 

+

 

There’s nothing memorable in the deserts of Arizona and New Mexico, but it’s beautiful nonetheless and the sun sets on the distant plateaus makes Alfred consider coming to the desert again someday. The five of them take turns behind the wheel, and when it’s Matt’s turn, it is obvious that he has never driven before. Alfred sits next to him and talks him through the process of shifting, not swerving off the road, and not arousing the suspicions of any cops they pass. When his turn is over they lightheartedly heckle him for his driving, but Alfred assures him he did a good job.

 

When they get to the coast, it’s early in the morning, and the rest of California is sound asleep. Alfred demands they stop and go for a swim in the moonlight. He has never seen the ocean before today, and he’s awestruck by the vastness of the salty water. He loves everything about it: the salty air that stings his eyes and nostrils, the rhythmic sound of the waves crashing together, right down to the sandy beach that feel so strange and soft between his toes. He decides right then and there that he will live by the sea if he ever leaves his parent’s house.

 

Alfred watches his brother who is looking sadly across the water. In this moment, he finds it strange how much they both look like their father, like they are twins even though they were born of different mothers.

 

“Cheer up, kiddo,” Alfred slaps his brother on the back. Matt looks surprised, but doesn’t say anything. Alfred looks across the water as well, trying to find just what his Matt is looking for.

 

“You gotta enjoy it, man,” Alfred says after several minutes in silence, “Who knows when we’ll get to see this again after we head back home?” Matt shrugs.

 

“Mama used to say she wanted to take me to the beach,” he says quietly, “Now that I’m here, I don’t know how I feel.”

 

“It ain’t what you thought it would be?” Alfred asks, kicking at the cold wave that washes over his foot.

 

“It’s not that,” Matt frowns, “I just always thought Mama would… y’know, be there with me…”

 

Alfred wants to offer words of encouragement or condolences, or something, but he’s not exactly sure what to say. The only person he knew who died was his Grandfather when he was ten, but he barely knew him, whereas Matt lost the woman who bore him and raised him. The two are not one in the same and Alfred thinks it’s better to keep his mouth shut.

 

“Hey! You! Let’s hit the road, man!” calls his friend. Alfred puts his arm over Matt’s shoulder and they walk back to the Microbus.

 

\+           

 

It’s cold, cloudy, and dark by the time they reach San Francisco, but Alfred considers this the best time to arrive. As they drive over the mountains, the lights on the skyscrapers in the valley below are like an upside-down collection of stars and galaxies on the horizon. Like Heaven came to Earth, and they were lucky enough to find it. Alfred thinks it’s love at first sight, and when he looks to Matt, he can see he’s just as awestruck.

 

They spend the night in the van. When they rise with the morning sun, they leave the van behind and explore the city on foot, just as it should be. The city is alive with people of all walks of life. As they walk down the streets they begin to notice huge congregations of people. Someone suggests they follow the crowd and see what’s going on. Alfred stays close to Matt as they navigate the crowds.

 

“Alfie,” Matt says quietly, “Why are you so nice to me?”

 

“Wha’dya mean?”

 

“I haven’t known you more than three months, but you treat me like we’ve grown up together,” Matt says quietly, frowning ever so slightly. Alfred thinks it over for a moment.

 

“I ain’t never had a little brother before,” Alfred responds, “I guess I’m making up for lost time.” He shrugs. Matt nods his head and smiles.

 

Suddenly, there is a sandwich in plastic wrap thrust in his face and Alfred abruptly stops to look at the person handing it to him. The man is older, with glasses, a beard and big smile on his face. He almost looks like a lion to Alfred, save the lack of hair on the top of his head. 

 

“What’s in it?” he asks. The man laughs and tosses Alfred two of the sandwiches. Alfred unwraps one and sniffs it.

 

“Tuna,” he tells Matt, who immediately wrinkles his nose, “Want one?”

 

“No, thank you,” Matt frowns. Alfred shrugs and begins devouring the sandwich. They make their way through the crowd and lose the rest of their party. The surroundings suggest they are in a park, and Matt says they should sit and maybe the others will find them. Alfred agrees, and they sit in the grass.

 

It’s not too long after (or it doesn’t feel that long, Alfred isn’t sure) the sandwich incident that Alfred becomes aware that the way the grass looks is so fascinating, and wonders why he never noticed how green it was, how sharp, and soft at the very same time. He runs his hand through it several times before Matt asks him what he’s doing.

 

“Man, feel the grass,” Alfred says slowly, mesmerized by the simple pleasure.

 

“I can feel it,” Matt looks confused, “It’s making me itchy.”

 

“No I mean,” Alfred searches for the words to describe, “I mean, it’s like… different.” He wants to stay here with this soft grass forever. Matt looks at him worriedly. Alfred hears someone playing the drums nearby and the sound is glorious, omnipresent. People around him start to dance, and the way their bodies move is like poetry in motion.

 

He wonders for only a moment whether his brother is blind or something not to see the beauty of the world around him, the sky so blue and the grass so green, and it’s now that he realizes something is fishy.

 

“Matty,” he says.

 

“Alfie?”

 

“I think there was something in that sandwich, man,” He says, studying a particularly interesting cloud. Matt groans.

 

He lies there studying this strange new world for what seems like an eternity, all the while Matt looks over him concernedly. Something in the back of Alfred’s mind wonders where the rest of the group went, but the prevailing thought on his mind is that he really doesn’t care. Just being here at this moment with his brother and all these people is the most amazing thing that has ever happened to him.

 

He can make someone out, someone speaking in the distance. It’s a man, and his voice is striking. He’s older, but he speaks with the words of the youth. He can’t understand half of what the man says, but he gets the big picture. The big, beautiful picture of the world at large and the never ending search for the self, and he may have found it right here, lying in the grass staring at the sky.

 

It seems like forever, but he blinks and it’s dark. His friends have found him and they’re talking with Matt. The world is becoming what he’s known it to be for all these years and part of him is sad to see its return. He stands up and joins the circle of friends.

 

“Ate the sandwich, didn’t he,” one of them asks. Matt nods.

 

“Man, Jeff ate the sandwich, didn’t ya, Jeff?” another one jabs Jeff in the ribs.

 

“Best fuckin’ sandwich I’ve ever had, I tell you what,” Jeff laughs. Alfred has to agree.

 

They make their way through the dwindling crowds and back to the van, where they sleep until the sun rise wakes them again. The rally is said and done, the boys decide they should be heading back. Alfred wants to stay a little longer because he is not looking forward to his mother’s reaction, but he hopes she’s calmed down in the days that they have been gone.

 

He thinks back to the man in the distance, about what he said, about the movement he saw and knows will soon sweep the nation, a nation of new ideas, the end of the war, a revolution of love. He’s glad he is alive for this era more than anything.

 

Damn, if he wishes these times would never end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. For those of you travelers of the southwestern US, (and those unfamiliar, I guess) the route is US-84 to Albuquerque, I-40 to Barstow, I-15 to Santa Monica, and finally I-5 to San Francisco. It's about a 1600 or 1700 mile trip (seriously) so it would take a little over a day of driving to get from Abilene to San Francisco taking this route.
> 
> 2\. Events described are a bastardized version of the Human Be-In in the Haight-Ashbury area of San Francisco. It happened in January of 1967, and is often considered the beginning of that whole Summer of Love thing that people associate with the 1960s in America. Notable events of the Human Be-In include people milling about nakedly, music, possible LSD laced tuna sandwiches being handed out (I read about this somewhere, and cannot for the life of me remember where), definite trippin', either way, and Timothy Leary's 'Turn on, Tune in, drop out' speech which really set the tone for the rest of the decade.
> 
> 3\. The lion man is totally beat poet Allen Ginsberg, who was having a grand ol' time with the youth at that Human Be-In.


	2. For What it's Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find our hero in the midst of war from the comfort of his own couch.
> 
> Kind of beta'd once upon a time. Pardon me.

It starts with a whistle, and ends with a bang.

In the smoldering hole left behind lay the remains of the sergeant and four others. Ears ringing, heart pounding and body tingling, he wonders if this is how his father felt as he climbed the cliffs of Normandy so many years ago. He is quick to grab his gun and scramble away, further down the trench.

As he loads the clip into the gun, the man beside him is picked off by a sniper. He watches the body fall, and notices more smoke all around him, meaning more holes with more boys lying in ruin.

It’s almost as if the mortar is following him, as if he has become death, the destroyer of worlds. He thinks he’s heard that quote from somewhere but now is not the time to dwell on it. He jumps, eyes wide, gun loaded and hot, and he fires wildly and hopes from the bottom of his heart that he hits at least one of them. When the clip is empty, he’s down and crawling along the trench. This is the most important lesson learned from the sniper’s victim. Keep moving.

He has mostly blocked out the sounds of the falling mortar by now, a mistake he figures much too late. As he loads his next clip he notices the whistling getting louder. The gun is dropped and he scrambles away as quickly as he can even though he knows it’s not fast enough.

+++

“Oi, Jones!” In a thick German accent is not the most ideal way to wake up, but he doesn’t complain. The knocking explains the mortar dream. He groans as he lifts himself from the couch and tries to will away the crick in his neck. The sun is shining through the cracks in his blinds, which means it’s well after noon.

“Whadya want, Schmidt?” he asks groggily, adjusting his glasses. He pushes himself off the couch and winces as he begins to make his way to the door, turning off the television in the process.

“I’m going to die grocer. Vat am I buying you today?”

“A little late, innit?” He opens the door to the German. He’s since gotten used to the white hair, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever really get over the red eyes. “Y’know Luddy doesn’t like it when he doesn’t get fresh bread with his schnitzel.”

The German raises an eyebrow at him before continuing, “Ja, vell, I vas busy. Give me die list before I decide to make you valk yourself to sie store.”

Alfred hardly considers training pigeons to be a ‘busy’ past time, but he knows he’s told Gilbert this several times already. He scratches the back of his neck and realizes he’s been sweating profusely. A look down to his soaked t-shirt confirms that he looks as though he’s just run a mile. He looks sheepishly at the man in the doorway, hoping his neighbor isn’t worried about his appearance.

“’M out of beer.”

“Beer, “Gilbert asks blankly, “Is zat all?”

“Yeah, man. And make it American; I’m sick of your crazy German beers, man.” Alfred smiles as digs in his pocket and pulls out a couple of bills. Gilbert scrunches up his nose disgustedly as he takes the money. As Gilbert makes his way down the hall, Alfred can hear him murmuring something in German.

It isn’t until the German is out of sight that Alfred realizes he’s shaking. It’s nothing new considering the dream he just woke up from, and he quickly puts it out of his mind. He grabs at his left thigh and limps to the bathroom. Alfred peels off his clothing hastily as he avoids the bathroom mirror as much as he can.

The water is hot and he needs to remind himself that he is not ‘over there’ anymore, that hasn’t been for three years, and that he should get over himself and enjoy the simple pleasures of civilian life. He washes quickly, covers up quickly and it is now that he allows himself a look in the mirror. His hair is longer and a bit wilder than it has been in a while, but still the color of the wheat fields back home. He tries in vain to flatten a rogue hair, knowing full well that it’s a losing battle that this hair has always and will forever do as it pleases. He is thankful it’s not as wild as Matty’s was. Alfred almost laughs.

+++

“Jones!” Even if he hadn’t called out, Alfred would’ve known it was Gilbert at the door. Gilbert is always much louder than his brother, and his knocks are more erratic. Alfred wonders when he began to notice such trivial things.

“Door’s open, Schmidt.” He replies. He is much too comfortable to be bothered to move. Gilbert slams open the door, and Alfred cringes.

“Vhere vould you like zis?” He asks, holding up a brown paper bag. Alfred points toward the refrigerator and Gilbert openly rolls his eyes.

“Yes, sir.” He adds, making his way to the kitchen. Alfred watches him.

“Thanks, Gil.” Alfred calls after him.

When Gilbert finishes putting the beer in the fridge, he comes back to the living room, does a false curtsey and proceeds to leave the apartment.

Alfred closes his eyes for just a moment before the door slams open again. He makes it a point to open his eyes as slowly as possible to show his annoyance with the loud German.

“By ze vay, my brother vants you to join us for dinner,” Gilbert adds, completely oblivious to the consequences of his intrusion.

“Same bat-time, same bat-channel?” Alfred drawls, closing his eyes again. He knows that Gilbert is wearing a look of moderate confusion.

“Er… Yes,” and with that Gilbert makes his final departure.

Alfred supposes he should comb his hair before he heads over.

+++

“Alfred, you are just in time.” Gilbert’s brother answers the door. He says that he three years younger than Gilbert, but Alfred thinks he acts much older. He also looks a lot more normal with his blond hair and light blue eyes. Alfred likes the fact that Ludwig’s accent isn’t as overwhelming as his brother’s, making him considerably easier to understand.

“Come on, Luddy,” He also likes the look of disapproval that nickname evokes from the overly serious man, “You know how punctual I am.”

“Yes,” Ludwig says slowly, “Now please, sit down.” Ludwig leads him to the table where Gilbert is setting out plates and silverware with little regard to the ways of proper etiquette. Alfred sits down slowly and Ludwig pushes his seat in before disappearing into the kitchen.

“What’s on the menu tonight, Schmidty?”

“Somesing you’ll undoubtedly hate, Jonesy.” Gilbert attempts to smile sweetly. In Alfred’s opinion, it’s one of the scariest things he’s seen in years. Luckily, Ludwig soon returns carrying a plate. He sets the plate in the middle of the table and Gilbert immediately grabs up as much food as he can in one go.

They eat in relative silence. Alfred doesn’t touch the cabbage, but he’d be a damn liar if he said the meat and potatoes weren’t delicious. Matty would always take his cabbage, and trade for something that Alfred actually would eat. He doesn’t know why he remembers that; it was some time ago, and Matty is long gone.

Alfred frowns.

“What’s wrong, Alfred?” Ludwig asks. He sets his knife and fork on the edge of his plate and focuses on Alfred.

“Nuthin’ man. Jus’ thinkin’.” Alfred murmurs, fork held limply just above the plate in front of him.

“Ah.” Is really all Ludwig can say. He looks to his brother, and Gilbert just shrugs. The silence that follows is only a little awkward.

“Mr. Jones,” Alfred knows Ludwig is plotting something when he uses that name. He should’ve expected something like this. He grunts in acknowledgement.

“Well…” before Ludwig can finish his train of thought, Gilbert is staring down Alfred, hands planted firmly on the table.

“Jones, it’s been veeks since you left die apartment,” he says bluntly, pushing his chair back and standing up.

“I go to work five days a week,” Alfred adds defiantly.

“Ja, but ve are in charge of purchasing your groceries und vhatever else you need to get out und buy.” Alfred can’t argue that, as it has been quite some time since he stepped out in the sunlight.

“So zat is vhy Ludwig zere,” Gilbert points, and Ludwig shifts uncomfortably, “has decided to call in a favor wis a cousin of ours.”

Alfred openly groans while Ludwig tries to explain that it was also part Gilbert’s idea. Alfred is not paying attention to him.

“Hold on, hold on,” Alfred stops Gilbert before he can go any farther, “What?!”

“I vas getting to-“

“We just want you to get out and meet new people,” Ludwig interjects before his brother can completely ruin the situation.

Alfred strokes his chin thoughtfully, his brows furrowed in agitation, “And if I refuse?”

“It was not a question,” Ludwig says, very seriously, “I will walk you to the coffee shop at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

“Man,” Alfred sighs harshly, before raising his voice “And what does your cousin have to do with anything anyways?!”

“Vell, ve’ve been told she’s ze prettiest girl in all of Switzerland,” Gilbert tries to wink, but fails to keep his left eye open as he does so.

“She?” Alfred is now interested in the German brothers’ train of thought. He hasn’t been with a girl since before Hendrix died.

“Ja, her name is Lily.”

“No, her name is Maria,” Ludwig face looks moderately grim as he switches to German, “Lily war das Mädchen…” he gesticulates slightly to jog his brother’s memory.

“Oh… OH!” Gilbert’s eyes widen before he starts laughing hysterically. Ludwig’s ears turn bright pink, and Alfred wonders what exactly he is missing out on.

“Well, ya’ll, it’s getting pretty late,” Alfred pushes his chair out and stands up slowly, “And I reckon I’ve gotta get some sleep if I hope to woo a fair lady tomorrow.”

“Yes, it is rather late,” Ludwig stands up and leads Alfred to the door, “I will see you tomorrow, Alfred. Thank you for coming to dinner.”

“No problemo, man. See you bright and early, Beilschmidt!” Alfred salutes as the door is closed.

It is an understatement to say that he is rather annoyed with his neighbors at the moment. It is also an understatement to say that he is nervous about the prospect of meeting someone tomorrow. He realizes he doesn’t remember what they said her name was, nor does he remember exactly how to charm a lady.

What is left of the muscle in his leg twitches uncomfortably as he unlocks his apartment door. He concludes that tomorrow will be disastrous, but he will make it through.

He made it through the war, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'War das Mädchen' should loosely translate to 'was that girl', however, my syntax (well, my German in general) is terrible, so if I've gotten this wrong, I would greatly appreciate a nudge in the right direction.
> 
> I'm really very sorry for all the zany errors in that there formatting. I'm still getting used to this site. @-@


	3. Left Here Facing the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee houses and foreigners.

 The first thing he wants when he wakes up is a cigarette. It has been a while since Alfred has actually craved one, and the fact that the Marlboros on the nightstand are stale is proof. He grimaces when he first inhales the musty smoke. As he watches the smoke twirl to the ceiling he realizes he really doesn’t want to get out of bed just yet, but the way the light enters the room tells him it’s almost noon.

He wonders idly why he is so antsy about this coffee date. It is not the first time he has done something like this, and it probably won’t be the last. It’s not until he pushes himself up and out of bed that he begins to wonder what this stranger will think of him. Will they question his limp and crutch? Can he bring himself to tell the truth about his experience? He has seen the protests and heard of what happened at Kent State; will this girl think he’s a monster like he’s sure many in the population do?

He lights another cigarette with the dying embers of the previous one and makes his way to the bathroom.

 

+++

 

Alfred is just finishing combing his hair when Ludwig knocks on the door. They don’t say anything when Alfred answers the door, and the walk is mostly silent. Ludwig is sure to walk a little bit slower so Alfred can keep up, and Alfred is less than enthused.

He can walk just as fast as he could before he was injured, thank you very much.

Alfred is sure he probably smells no better than an ashtray by the time they get to the coffee shop. The rest of the stale Marlboros are gone, and if he has any say, Ludwig owes him a pack for subjecting him to this torture.

As they walk through the doors of the coffee shop, Alfred notices there is not much in the way of business. There is one table taken up by a man with a newspaper, and the man behind the counter is busy drying out a coffee mug with a rag. As Alfred’s attentions focus on the man behind the counter, he notices that he is giving Ludwig the ugliest look he has ever seen.

“If it isn’t Mr. Potata Head,” he says in a condescending tone, in an accent that Alfred is certain is either Spanish or Italian. Accent aside, Alfred is a little surprised by the tone, but Ludwig looks indifferent.

“Is your brother here?” He asks calmly, ignoring the disdainful looks being thrown his way.

“If he was, why would I a-tell you, mach-“ the angry man is interrupted as another man jumps up from behind the counter and throws a pastry in the trash.

“Ludwig! What a surprise!!” the man all but jumps out from behind the counter and hugs the German. His brother looks absolutely disgusted at the scene.

“Hello, Feliciano,” Ludwig looks a bit uncomfortable, but smiles anyway.

“Can I get you the usual?” Feliciano asks as he lets Ludwig go.

“Oh, yes…,” Ludwig turns his head slightly to ask, “and Alfred, what would you like?”

“Just a coffee,” Alfred replies, reaching for his wallet.

He stops when Ludwig shakes his head at him. “I will get this. Now, go sit,” he says, “Maria should be here shortly.”

Alfred hones in on a seat by the window and makes himself comfortable. Ludwig brings him his coffee and then goes to sit with the barista at a table on the other side of the small shop. Alfred wonders only briefly whether or not Ludwig’s cousin is attractive.

 

+++

 

People begin to come in and out for their various beverages and pastries, and Alfred sits silently, stirring his coffee with his finger, attention focused on nothing in particular. He only barely notices the Frenchman who waltzes through the door and begins to talk to the remaining barista. He flinches only slightly when the angry brother explodes and all but kicks the Frenchman out of the building.

Alfred is the only one who doesn’t complain about the outburst in the immediate aftermath. His mind is thousands of miles away, on the beaches and in the jungles of Vietnam; where the girls were plentiful and would do anything a kinky soldier with a few bucks could think of. He smirks. His mind wanders to the girl from the village, and he is slowly filled a sense of dread.

He hopes that Ludwig’s cousin decides to go do something far away from the coffee shop that has nothing to do with him.

 

+++

 

Ludwig told him that he and the Italian were going somewhere, but he doesn’t remember when he said they would return. That was at least an hour ago; an hour that Alfred has spent staring at people as they passed the window. His fingers slowly spin the long cold cup of coffee in his hands. He is relieved that Ludwig’s cousin has yet to show up.

It is now that he realizes someone is talking to him.

“Beg pardon?” he jumps back to reality. There stands a man with a cup in his hand, newspaper under arm and a raised eyebrow.

“I asked if I could sit here,” repeats the man lightly, voice wrapped in British accent. Alfred wonders vaguely when he started amassing this collection of foreigners.

“Sure, sure. Go ahead man.” Alfred motions to the empty seat in front of him and looks around. The place has filled up since he last looked.

“Thank you, sir,” and with that, the British man pulls the newspaper out from under his arm and begins to read. Alfred studies the stranger for a few seconds, wondering several times exactly how someone’s eyebrows get that bushy.

“Pretty far from London town, aren’t we? What’re ya’ll doing out here in New York?” Alfred asks, smiling one of his bona fide Texan smiles. The man puts down the paper only slightly so that he can look at Alfred.

“I could ask the same thing, Texas.” He goes back to reading the newspaper, but smirks slightly as he does so.

“Touché, London.” Alfred points his fingers like twin revolvers in no particular direction.

“I daresay, you’re the first person who hasn’t accused me of being from Liverpool,” the British man folds up his newspaper and takes a sip from his cup. Alfred wonders distantly if he’s drinking tea.

“Well, Beatlemania’ll do that,” Alfred adjusts himself in his seat, “And ‘sides, I could understand you way better than I ever could John or Ringo.”  
“Thank you,” the Brit smirks wryly, “but the same cannot be said of that awful drawl of yours.”

“Aw, come on,” Alfred feigns insult, “It ain’t even that bad!”

They settle into a polite conversation that encompasses a little bit of everything. Alfred tries everything in his power to keep the conversation far away from the war. He knows it is a losing battle, as the war is the hottest subject on everyone’s mind at this point in time, but that doesn’t stop him from freezing when the Brit halfheartedly broaches the subject.

Luckily, it is at this very moment Ludwig returns with Feliciano. It takes everything in him not to jump up and bolt. Feliciano waves at his brother, who is too busy scowling at Ludwig to notice.

“Hello, Alfred,” Ludwig comes over to the table while Feliciano makes his way to the back room, “I am sorry we took so long.”

“It’s fine, man,” Alfred says impatiently, fingers tapping sporadically on the table.

“Did Maria ever show up?”

“No, man,” Alfred stand up as quickly as he can and grabs his crutch, “Now let’s jet, I’m starving.”

They leave before the British man can say goodbye.

 

+++

 

The walk back is considerably more silent than the walk to the coffee shop. Every now and then, Ludwig offers his apologies for leaving Alfred, for his cousin not showing up, for his brother being so obnoxious and Alfred wonders vaguely what he’s going to apologize for next.

Alfred tries to assure him that it’ll be ok with a ‘I really do need to get out more,” or a “He isn’t that bad, man,” and this works for the moment, but Ludwig will apologize again in the long run.

They fall silent again. As they near a convenience store, Alfred looks to Ludwig.

“So, how was your date with the Spaniard?”

“Italian,” Ludwig corrects him.

“Italian, Spaniard, same difference, man,” Alfred rolls his eyes, “But you didn’t answer my question. How was your date?”

Ludwig tenses slightly before replying, “It was good.”

“Good enough to need a cigarette after?” Alfred pokes. Ludwig looks even more uncomfortable, but says nothing. “Nah, man. ‘m just messin’ with ya,” Alfred smirks, “But my date was definitely worth a pack.”

“Right,” Ludwig averts his gaze to the convenience store, “It’s the least I could do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kent State: So! Bulk of this story is happening late '72- early '73 when people really hated the Vietnam war (and Nixon would soon be announcing the end of American involvement, as it were). So, before 1968, people in the US were more or less ok with the Vietnam war. Well, except the counterculture, but that's called a counterculture for a reason, man. Anyway, Everything changed with the Tet Offensive in early 1968. Most American's mindsets changed to 'man what a stupid waste of resources, money and lives! Fuck the war!'
> 
> In April of 1970, President Richard Nixon started military movement into Cambodia. A wave of anger rushed through the country at this escalation of this ridiculous war, and there were a ton of protests at several universities around the country. On May 4, 1970, there was a demonstration at Kent State University in Ohio. The National Guard was called in to disperse the crowd, someone may or may not have thrown a rock, and suddenly, the National Guard was shooting at unarmed students.
> 
> In the aftermath, four students were killed and nine wounded. Of the four killed, two were protesters, and the other two were merely kids walking to class.
> 
> Anyway, the Kent State massacre sent the whole anti-war movement over the edge.
> 
> Funfact: Marlboro Reds are called 'Cowboy Killers' due to old adverts that had cowboys in them! THE MORE YOU KNOW.


End file.
